The Piano Player

In a dimly lit room

I sit and listen

As his fingers

Pour out his heart on the bleached ivory 

Like spilled ink 

On a black piece of paper.

He writes his novel

As he plays the notes of his past life

Pausing ever so slightly

To catch the last drop of the ink

He starts back again

And plays each note carefully

Making sure he doesn't keep his pen

On the paper too long to leave 

An imprint of a permanent stain

He keeps writing his song as though no one is watching,

But as he starts to touch the black keys,

He hesitates and looks up for strength.

He stops, the ink can't be erased,

But the music still plays for me-

His only audience.

 

Originally written 1/6/2004